


the things yet to come are the things that have passed

by sugarybowl



Series: (there are many loves but only one war) [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarybowl/pseuds/sugarybowl
Summary: “Once, a very long time ago, many years from now..."





	the things yet to come are the things that have passed

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be way angstier but now I'm not sure what it is and I have plans that involve some Fen/Margo, Eliot and Quentin's great granddaughter, and more Spuffy. But... that's if y'all like it. For now can be read as is!
> 
> Thank you Brie my fandom sister and world's best editor.

Quentin can feel it staring at him. It isn’t a premonition or enhanced senses or a magical tingle on his nose, it’s only that it leans very heavily on the bed. The elbow makes a dip in the mattress that jolts Quentin out of the superficial slumber he had managed and makes him aware that it is there, unmoving for now, staring.

He doesn’t open his eyes, instead tries to keep them as naturally relaxed as possible. Out of spite.

“You promised you would sleep every three days.”

“It hasn't been three days,” it says.

“No you're right, it's been _four_.”

There is definite huffing and tossing and tantruming beside him but he won’t open his eyes, not until he has to.

“I don't need to sleep.”

“Well _you_ might not,” he sighs as he punches at his pillow and turns on his side away from the thing staring at him, “but the frail human body you're inhabiting does and so do I.”

“Don’t call it that,” it snaps.

That’s new, it’s never snapped before. He can feel it sitting up on the bed, hovering, possibly murderous.  Quentin keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t see Eliot’s eyes if this one random thing triggers the one moment of senseless rage that kills him. The moment passes though and the dip of the elbow in the mattress is familiar again.

“I'm bored,” it whines, “get up and play with me.”

“I can't play with you if I die of exhaustion and I definitely won't play if you break that body by not letting it sleep.”

More shuffling. Louder huffing.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Sleep was a new development with it, one they didn’t pry into lest they make it wise to the fact that a lot of things about it had changed after Eliot broke through. It had been the addictions that bubbled up first and it had taken them too long –it had taken _him_ too long – to realize what was happening. The urges that would always be part of Eliot were floating to the surface and without Eliot’s self-control they were just wants for _it_ to chase. But then a few days later it got hungry, genuinely stomach rumbling hungry, and last week it had fallen asleep. For one agonizing moment Quentin thought it was over, that it had done more to Eliot’s body than any human vessel could take, that it could be anywhere by now and Eliot was dead again and then - then it had snored.

Using its fascination with Quentin as a bargaining chip they had made it agree to sleep - to conserve the body’s energy for their mission in recovering what it’d lost. Getting it to keep its word and go to bed was a whole other thing.

Quentin counts the seconds of silence like an inside joke. 23...24...25..26…

“You know Ora…”

He laughs because he has to, sometimes, like a pressure valve. “That doesn't sound like sleep.”

“Ora used to want to sleep,” it continues pouting audibly, “but she always told me a story before I let her.”

Quentin opens his eyes, glancing sideways at it, “A story.”

“Yes.”

“Ora told you bedtime stories.” Quentin can hardly believe.

“Go on,” it huffs, moving to lay back and hug a pillow, “don't make it boring.”

Quentin shifts in the bed and clears his throat because really, this might as well happen.

“Once…”

––––

“Once, a very long time ago, many years from now there was a young woman living in the mythical land of California…”

“Daddy says - ”

“Hey mister,” Eliot huffs, “it’s not Daddy graciously tucking you into bed tonight now is it.”

From his corner stool Quentin raises an eyebrow at the pair curled up on the cot. “Daddy’s mending this cardigan, so it’s going to be one of Pop’s dramatic readings of 90s cult classics or nothing at all.”

“I like Pop’s stories,” Teddy says twirling a lock of Eliot’s hair until the man stops pouting, “but if California isn’t real then - ”

“I didn’t say California isn’t real Tedster, I just said it’s mythical and it is, just like Fillory is magical. Doesn’t make it any less real does it?”

Teddy shakes his head and burrows deeper into his covers.

“Alright, so this young woman was given the impossible task to rid the world of the scourge of vampires.”

“What are vampires?”

“Blood sucking monsters that look like your aunt Reigla.”

“Eliot!”

“Arielle hated her,” he sniffed at Quentin before turning to Teddy. “She's awful and she was awful to Mamma all her life. It’s my duty to make sure we continue that family tradition and banish her. Like a vampire.”

“Eliot I don’t think Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a great bedtime story for a 7 year old.”

“Well you’re wrong and also mending a cardigan and not in charge of bedtime stories for tonight now are you? Now where was I…”

“The young woman was gonna get rid of aunt Reigla,” Teddy mumbled sleepily.

“Right, the thing is sometimes vampires don’t look like aunt Reigla all the time. Sometimes they are dashing young men with terrible dye jobs and secret hearts of gold…”

“Careful El, your Spuffy fanfic is showing.”

“If I can’t make it real for my son in a world where he’ll never be exposed to the injustice of canon then where can I?”

Teddy giggles softly, eyes closed and curling close to Eliot’s thigh. Eliot hums a song that Quentin can’t remember or recognize and runs his fingers through Teddy’s hair over and over again until his face relaxes in sleep.

“You always do that,” Quentin whispers.

Eyes focused on Teddy, Eliot can barely pretend to play innocent with him, “Do what?”

“Tire him out arguing with me about TV shows until he falls asleep. Seven years I don’t think you’ve ever gotten through a bedtime story.”

“I’m not very good at fairytales, Q, that’s your purview. But I love to hear you tell them,” he whispers. His smile is soft in a way that belonged only here in this time and space that shouldn't exist but had become the only one that mattered.

“You know, it’s _yours_ that he remembers – what little of them you get through. It’s what he uses to play pretend, what he tells his friends at school about, what he asks for when I put him to bed and you’re still out at the mosaic.”

“Well,” Eliot says softly as he kisses the top of Teddy's head and slips away from his cot, “I do have some of the best scripts of the 90s and early 2000s to help me. Cardigan all mended?”

“Cardigan mended,” Quentin agrees, setting the item aside with the rest of Teddy's clothes.

“If that little shit Galin rips Teddy’s clothes one more time - ”

“We’ll talk to his mother,” he says in what he hopes is a soothing tone as he reaches out for Eliot. “She’s got a lot on her plate, you know that.”

“Mmm…” having seemingly forgotten his indignation Eliot starts to toy with the tassels of Quentin's shirt. “Coming to bed?”

It's been a couple of weeks since they've done anything resembling exciting in bed and some days Quentin worries about it. He worries that Eliot needs more than this and more than them, that one day he’ll realize that the quest has become their life and he’ll realize that he’s not interested. That he might be stuck in Fillory, but he doesn’t have to be stuck with them. He worries that Eliot might be unhappy. He worries that Eliot might remember that he is a High King in his blood, that he has a crown waiting for him and that any day he could claim it. He worries Eliot won’t go looking for crowns but go looking for something else. They both wandered after a cute villager or two since Arielle's death, but lately they haven't. Lately they've spent most nights shushing each other with kisses and moaning with a stifled hand squeeze and they have been happy. ‘Lately’ has actually been a couple of years, if he’s honest, but Quentin still worries...because he's Quentin.

“Hey,” he says into the long stretch of Eliot's neck, breathing in the content exhaustion of them.

“Hey,” Eliot responds. “I'm all keyed up. Tell me a bedtime story?”

Quentin chuckles and draws a senseless pattern he might try out tomorrow in the sweaty curls of Eliot's chest. He forgets to worry.

“Once, a very long time ago, many years from now there lived a beautiful and spectacular king that gave up his kingdom to join a fool on a quest…”


End file.
